


Four, Six, One.

by zesulin



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Canon, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Demigirl Lavellan, F/M, Ficlet, Gen, Mirre Lavellan - Freeform, Reincarnation, Solavellan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 09:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5243759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zesulin/pseuds/zesulin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he sees them, they’re running down the sidewalk, waving their arms wildly to flag down a taxi. </p><p>(Somehow, he can’t shake the familiarity. Something about arms outstretched towards the sky with undeniable purpose).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four, Six, One.

**Author's Note:**

> This is like the laziest fic I've ever written but I was having a feeling so here have a solavellan fic from your fav terrible writer.

The first time he sees them, they’re running down the sidewalk, waving their arms wildly to flag down a taxi. It’s late fall, and breezy enough in the city that the leaves skitter across the pavement, as if chasing after them. They’re wrapped in a maroon scarf and a high-necked wool coat, familiar hands clad in leather gloves. For a moment, he can almost imagine the mark flaring underneath it as he stares, his heart in his stomach. He curses himself for feeling, momentarily, like all the breath has been sucked from his lungs. It leaves him shaken.

He chalks it up to be a coincidence. There are only so many facial variations. An descendant, perhaps (But somehow, he can’t shake the familiarity. Something about arms outstretched towards the sky with undeniable purpose).

The second time, he’s holed up in the coffee place on the corner, pale fingers dancing across the keyboard of his laptop with purpose, brows knit in concentration. Winter has exhaled it’s icy breath into the city, leaving car windows frosted and lining the lingering leaves on trees with silver. The cold leaves his knuckles and nose a soft pink, but here in the warm corner of Café Royeaux, chill is chased away by the advent of modern heating and coffee to keep him awake (Really, he’s glad they figured that out. No more drafty taverns).

They stumble in with the wind on their back, dark hair blowing their hair up into their face, and they laugh. It’s not melodic, musical by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s still a beautiful sound that echoes through the ages of their separation. His gaze snaps up when he hears it, and it more rips at his heartstrings and plays them like a fiddle than it tugs at them. 

“Josie!” They’re calling to a human behind the counter, brushing their hair out of their face. He barely catches sight of the light green vallaslin trailing across their face before they step out of sight. This time, he’s sure it’s not coincidental.

He’s not able to focus for the rest of the afternoon.

 

The third time comes when he’s officially introduced by his intern (small world, he thinks). He doesn’t even have to ask their name when they say it, but he just smiles, and introduces himself. (“You look familiar,” they say, nose crinkling just so. “Have I met you before?” No, he replies, and feels his chest burn with the lie. His own words ring through his head. In another world, he’d promised. Perhaps that, too, had been a lie. “Huh, sorry. Maybe you just have one of those faces!”) 

Weeks roll by, and they work alongside one another. He keeps his distance, and never grows used to it (But oh, they’re damnably curious, and far too clever when they feel like it. He can only stay distant for so long). 

(The fourth time that he runs into them, it’s out of work context. He’s trying to escape the stress of a particularly difficult article, let his mind be numbed for an hour or two. Escape is impossible when they’re there with someone he dimly recognizes as Dorian, two or three stools down from him, sipping drinks. Part way through the night, he can feel a pair of eyes burning into him. For a moment, approaching them feels like a good idea, before it’s smothered by the weight of everything.

It’s only so long before he’s backed into a corner, metaphorically speaking.)

 

The first time they ask him on a date, his heart is in his mouth (Really, it’s just coffee. But it’s something in their smile). The resounding ‘no’ in his mind, and the nearly stuttered yes when he speaks (In another world, he said. Perhaps another time can settle?) 

Coffee, they’d said. They end up getting hot apple cider. Because, they reason, it’s _in season_ and _tastes like home_. (And he can’t help but smile at that, it’s so very like them.) 

(The second, third, and fourth dates come not long after that. And it’s so easy, now, when the entire world isn’t at stake.) 

 

The fifth date is not so fortunate, ending in bitten words and slamming car doors, and he can’t get the metallic taste of regret out of his mouth. It lingers for days, souring in his mouth, and spreading dark and bitter through his chest. His dreams offer little comfort, and it’s a restless few days, tension tight between them. Some kind of fear builds, at losing something that never truly had begun. He’d lost it once before. To do so again, this close...

(‘They feel betrayed, bitter, burning anger...he didn’t believe me, am I really the fool? No, Keepers keep for a reason, we try our best—’ 

—And he’s right. Perhaps an apology is in order.)

 

They’re more forgiving than he remembers. Perhaps that comes easier with more incarnations (and perhaps he’d try it, but he is the sole keeper of the world’s memories. Were he lost, the world would lose far too much knowledge).

(Then again, what have the ages changed? Who would listen to him?)

 

Reconciliation comes with a new first. It comes with gentle, cool fingers, with silky black hair between his own, not yet streaked with grey. It comes with a slow, coy smile, and a sudden bravery, leaning in to capture his lips. It’s soft, warm, and right, and this time he doesn’t draw away— this time he doesn’t slip away, no apologies, no cannot's. 

(In another world, he said. Yes, this is close enough.)


End file.
